A collection of seemingly unrelated things
by Volitan
Summary: An Axe Murderer, Five Stitches, a Banana and a New Pair of Shoes...  They're a seemingly random collection of things, unless Sherlock and John are involved, and then the items as a collective make complete sense.  Oneshot.  Complete.


**An Axe Murderer, Five Stitches, a Banana and a New Pair of Shoes.**

They're a seemingly random collection of things, unless Sherlock and John are involved, and then the items make complete sense. Oneshot. Complete.

oOo

_**Author's Note**__. I'm actually rather __**nervous**__ about posting this, but the wonderful reviews of my other fic spurred me on. I hope I've kept everyone in character - I tried my best. You know, I thought it seemed a bit… domestic, even considering the situation I put them in. I'm not a doctor by any means, so the little bit of medical stuff in here had to be researched; apologies if it isn't accurate._

_I hope you enjoy. It made me giggle writing it._

oOo

**I am an amateur author of false name,**

**I borrow worlds of another's fame.**

**I stake no claim on recognised locations,**

**Neither do I own canon situations.**

**I merely come here to spend a while,**

**Reading other's work; writing my own style.**

**I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.**

**I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.**

**I do not mean to step on legal toes,**

**I mean no infringement, I'm friend not foe.**

**So please, do come in, relax, unwind.**

**I hope in my work, enjoyment you will find.**

oOo

Lestrade watched as, simultaneously, the forensics team arrived and the criminal was driven away. Someone had already unrolled the blue and white 'Police Line Do Not Cross' tape around the area; and the almost-victim was sat in the back of the ambulance being carefully and quietly tended to by paramedics.

The result was a copious quantity of blue flashing lights and sirens that were compounding to make the Detective Inspector's headache worse. And his feet _hurt_, the blisters burning at his heel and on both little toes.

It was half-past-too-bloody-early-in-the-morning, Lestrade hadn't slept in oh-God-I-can't-remember-how-long-I've-actually-been-awake and he'd drunk enough coffee that his system probably contained more caffeine than the local Costa. However, it couldn't be denied that it had been worth it: one maniac caught _before_ he had the chance to become a serial killer; handcuffed and on his way to be locked up - likely to be sectioned.

An axe murderer. An actual axe murderer. Lestrade had _almost_ laughed when Sherlock told him this, but, one look at the first-and-only victim (and the mess of bone fragments, blood, and brain matter _smeared_ all over the victim's kitchen floor in a _six-foot radius_) had killed the laughter. Lestrade had almost been sick when the consulting detective had said, _"There's going to be another one, this victim was a practice-run to refine technique."_

Lestrade came back to himself from his thoughts, "Anderson, start in the kitchen." He shouted at the blue-suited forensic scientist and his team. Anderson simply nodded, organising his people and equipment.

"There's blood on the murder weapon, fresh blood. There are splatters on the floor leading out of the house. Is the chap in the ambulance alright?" Anderson cried from out of the kitchen window a few minutes later. The paramedics suddenly began scurrying all around the poor man sat in the ambulance, re-checking, re-evaluating and other verbs that had re- as a prefix. The almost-murder victim kept shaking his head at their questions. He wasn't bleeding, bruised and shocked, but definitely no cuts.

"Paramedics say its not the victim, Anderson, maybe the murderer cut himself on the axe?" Lestrade shouted back.

"Doubt it, you'd have noticed when you cuffed him - we're talking quite a gash here, not a little paper-cut." the forensic scientist yelled.

"Give me your keys." came a sharp _order_ from his left. Dr. John Watson was usually perfectly polite, but his voice left no room for manners, misinterpretation or argument. Without a word, Lestrade fished his car keys out of his pocket and pressed the button that would unlock his car, handing the keys over.

The doctor _marched_ off, without a thank-you or even a second's thought for the Detective Inspector, who turned to issue instructions to several uniformed officers.

"What the bloody hell does he want with your car keys?" Donavan asked as she approached him a few minutes later, her brows knitted as she puzzled over the doctor's actions.

"I've no idea wh-" Lestrade stopped himself mid-sentence, suddenly putting two-and-two together. Distantly his exhausted mind congratulated him on his deduction; while a little voice (that sounded suspiciously like the Sherlock) pointed out that it wasn't a particularly difficult conclusion to come to. "Anderson, the fresh blood on the axe is _Sherlock's_!" he cried, dashing to the ambulance to collect a Mylar blanket, like those given to marathon runners, and then in the direction of his car.

"Bloody Hell, the bloody psychopath _always_ manages to do something to complicate my crime scenes!" Anderson shouted, his complaint un-noticed by Lestrade.

"How'd you work out the blood is the Freak's?" Donavan asked, following him at a sprint.

"Because John keeps a first aid kit that makes that ambulance look _amateur_ in my car boot; and because he's not being polite, Watson barks _orders_ when people get hurt." Lestrade answered.

"Looks more like a case of public indecency to me." Donavan muttered, stopping and gesturing towards where the doctor and consulting detective were.

At first glance, Lestrade could agree with her. John was sat on the bonnet of one of the marked police cars, the headlights of Lestrade's opposite, un-marked car on full beam. Sherlock knelt on his folded trench coat between John's legs, his face in his lap. The doctor was carefully and tenderly stroking the fingers of his right hand through the sociopaths hair, the left hand on his shoulder.

Getting their heads out of the gutter, upon moving closer, Lestrade and Donavan could see the blood glistening in Sherlock's hair, running down the back of his neck and gradually soaking his once-white shirt a deep red. John's legs and left arm were tensed, literally holding the injured man in a human-vice.

"Do you need anything?" Donavan asked weakly, looking between the two men, not moving too close.

"_Holmes_, sit still. _Now_." Watson hissed around the capped syringe he held between his teeth as reached into a multi-pocketed camouflage bag (propped up on the windscreen of the police car) for something. Lestrade absently wondered weather the doctor should actually still have possession of his army medical bag, but decided not to comment. The doctor kept his eyes on his patient, not even glancing into the bag as he pulled out item after item, he evidently knew the exact placement of each and every article in there.

"A lift home after this would be appreciated." Sherlock mumbled, "I doubt we'll be able to get a taxi, as you've cordoned the surrounding area off… no police cars, if you don't mind."

"Donavan, You go back to the crime scene, I need to find out what went on here, and then work out which bit of paperwork I need to fill in because of it; bearing in mind Sherlock wasn't _officially_ here at the time. And, please, find someone who can take them home, it's the least we can do." Lestrade said, noticing that the blood was still oozing freely from Sherlock's wound.

"Should I let the paramedics know?" she asked as she turned.

"I think Dr. Watson over there is probably better qualified, by the looks of it. And I think if the paramedics were needed, they'd already be on the case." Lestrade said, grimacing. He watched as the doctor began to quickly inject whatever was in the syringe into the consulting detective's head, his legs tightening as Sherlock began to move.

"Keep _still_. It'll be over in a second." the doctor snapped. Sherlock stilled, tiny whimpers of pain accompanying every injection.

Lestrade approached with the silver blanket, carefully wrapping it around the blood-soaked Consulting Detective.

"Oh good, now I look like a Christmas goose about to go into the oven! I don't know whether this is better or worse than an orange blanket." Came a mumble from John's lap.

"Its reflecting eighty-percent of your body heat back to you, so its better. Shut up for a minute." the doctor sniped.

"What happened?" Lestrade asked, fishing his notebook and pen out of his pocket.

"Sherlock's the reason your victim isn't a victim." John said quickly, using a bandage to wipe the wound over before reaching for Lestrade's hand and pressing it onto the bandage. "Keep applying pressure."

"Not too much pressure, it is rather painful." mumbled Sherlock.

"Belay that, keep the pressure on." Watson snapped.

"What was that you just gave him?" Lestrade asked.

"Judging by how the liquid feels _cool_, and the fact that I require stitches, I'm guessing it is a local anaesthetic." Sherlock mumbled, his head still planted face-down in the doctor's lap.

"You do know, there's an _ambulance_ over there, don't you? You don't have to do this by the light of my car headlights." Lestrade said, conversationally, keeping his tone light.

"Not the first time I've done this lit by headlights. And the ambulance was occupied, not to mention surrounded by gawking forensic scientists. I don't think your almost-victim needed the image of Sherlock bleeding. Poor bloke's already in shock as it is." was the doctor's reply as he opened up a packet of suture thread and two sterile-packed instruments.

"Can I let go yet?" Lestrade asked, earning a filthy look from the doctor. The Detective Inspector decided that, _no_, he couldn't ease up on the pressure yet, even though he could _feel_ the blood soaking through the bandage onto his hand. Absently, he wondered why had he taken the latex gloves he'd put on at the crime scene off? "There's a lot of blood here, do you need to go to hospital?"

"You and what army are going to get him into that ambulance, or through the door to casualty? You've _no_ chance. Its taking all I've got to just pin him down so I can do this." John muttered, not looking up. "Its not as bad as you think. The trouble is, head wounds bleed like nobody's business! They always look worse than they actually are. I'd glue it if he wasn't allergic to the compound. The wound is long, but not that deep; he's only got a mild concussion. five stitches, a banana, some painkillers, a shower and then bed are all he needs. I'll keep an eye on him back at the flat." the doctor replied quickly, each sentence short and to the point. He shooed Lestrade's hand away, prodding the needle into the area surrounding the wound.

"Does that hurt?" he asked his patient.

"No, it doesn't hurt. I can still feel it, though." Sherlock replied.

"Good, anaesthetic's kicked in. Sit. Still. This should only take two minutes."

Lestrade was morbidly fascinated as he watched the doctor work, and was quietly impressed that it wasn't long before John had finished. The two men helped Sherlock to his feet, sitting him down on the car bonnet.

"How long will they need to stay in?" Lestrade asked.

"Five days, they should be ready to take out by then." John said. He moved to clean Sherlock up a little bit with a pack of baby wipes that he'd produced from somewhere in his bag. That soothing, powdery smell associated with infants mixing with the tang of blood, giving Sherlock a strange, macabre aroma. "I'm _so_ glad I gave you your boosters last month.

"I wasn't. They bloody hurt. My arm, shoulder and back hurt for _days_!" Sherlock muttered.

"Well, Tetanus would hurt a _lot_ more. And do I even have to mention hep-B and _varicella_ to you? You messing around with dead bodies means you _need_ to keep your jabs up to date!"

"Still bloody well hurt." Sherlock snipped.

"Don't be such a girl about it. Actually, speaking of girls, _Molly_ handled the jabs better than _you_ did." John said, chuckling.

"I couldn't play my violin for a week!" Sherlock hissed.

"I _know_, and I didn't have a three-in-the-morning musical alarm clock for a _whole seven days_. It was lovely." John grinned from ear to ear, chuckling at Sherlock's glare; if looks could kill, poor Dr. Watson would already be six-feet-under, and only his sociopath murderer would have been able to work out what had killed him.

"Sorry to break up your little argument… but why a banana? " Lestrade prompted, taking a wipe for himself to get Sherlock's blood off his own hand where he'd held the bandage.

"John, I do hate to lower myself to Lestrade's level… however, I also truly don't understand the significance of the banana."

"Because, statistically, four out of ten head wounds make you throw up. _I_ keep track of that sort of thing, because you bloody well don't!" the doctor replied.

"What's the banana got to do with that?" Lestrade asked, noting that Sherlock certainly looked a bit green around the gills.

"He hasn't eaten properly for three days. Damned 'digestion makes me slow' attitude to cases. And the painkillers I'll give him are NSAIDs - they cause stomach ulcers, so they need to be taken with food." John said, turning to pack up his things; the used needles, syringes, surgical gloves, baby wipes and soiled bandages were carefully stuffed into a miniature clinical waste container. The doctor was even courteous enough to wipe the splats of blood from the bonnet of the police car.

"Why a banana though, will it settle his stomach?" Lestrade asked, genuinely curious.

"No, but they taste the same the second time around, so its less stressful for him, should he throw it back up." Watson replied with a shrug.

"You are _not_ helping matters, John." Sherlock groaned, putting the back of a still-blood-stained hand to his mouth, Lestrade could see his abdomen twitch violently through his shirt.

The doctor stared at Sherlock for a long minute, sighed and was once again back into his bag. He came back up with another syringe in its sterile packet, two sealed needles and another small glass vial. "Stand up, turn around, drop your trousers."

"Why?" Lestrade asked, watching as Sherlock grumbled, not moving and still sitting heavily on the police car bonnet. The Detective Inspector wasn't sure if Sherlock was protesting, or just too weak to actually move.

The doctor snapped the vial open, using a long needle to draw the liquid up into the syringe. Lestrade's eyes widened as the doctor changed the needle for one that was even longer _and_ thicker. "This one is an analgesic, Sherlock, looks like you're not going to keep oral painkillers down just yet." The doctor capped the needle, once again biting it between his teeth.

"I'm sure I can manage." Sherlock whined petulantly.

"And I'm sure _I'm_ the _doctor_, not you. Shut up. Stand up. Turn around. Drop your trousers. The quicker you comply, the quicker you can go home, get cleaned up and go to bed." John's voice, once again, left no room for argument, even if it was distorted by his method of holding the needle by biting it.

"That's a big needle." Lestrade whispered, watching as Sherlock scowled. It would have been a menacing look, had he not looked like a rabbit caught in headlights.

John's voice hardened, "Holmes, _Now_!" Lestrade winced in sympathy, that was most definitely an order. With an almost inaudible whimper, Sherlock grudgingly stood and turned around, leaning heavily on the police car bonnet as he complied, fumbling in an un-coordinated manner with the fastening to his trousers.

"Sherlock, those are _my_ boxers! Why are _you_ wearing them? They don't even fit you, you skinny little bugger!" the doctor moaned, unceremoniously moving them down a little bit and quickly jabbing in the needle. Sherlock let out a yelp, his glare at his flatmate mutinous and promising revenge. John efficiently pulled the black trousers back up and re-fastened them without batting an eye.

"Ouch! Good God! Give a man some warning!" Sherlock groaned as he gingerly sat back down, "And, anyway, all of My boxer shorts are in the freezer… should my leg be going numb?"

"_Why _have you - never mind." Lestrade said, not really wanting to know why the sociopath had put his underwear in the freezer. The man kept human eyes in his microwave, underwear in the freezer seemed pretty tame in comparison.

"Yes, your leg is supposed to feel like that, it'll stop your head hurting in about ten minutes or so… Sherlock, talking of legs, did you take that foot out of the fridge? John asked, nonchalant.

"The foot remains in the fridge, the experiment hasn't run its course yet, please tell me you didn't move it." Sherlock replied to the doctor, gently touching his fingers to the bandage; the doctor gently slapped his hand away.

"No, I _haven't_ moved it, not even to make way for the things that are _supposed_ to be in the fridge, you know, like milk, cheese, margarine…"

"I should perhaps look into purchasing a separate fridge for my little experiments." Sherlock mused.

"I've been saying that for _months_!" John complained.

After a moment of silence from the pair, (while John continued to wipe Sherlock over with more baby wipes), Lestrade belatedly remembered he'd had a cup of coffee at the doctor's insistence last week… the milk had come from _that fridge_ - a fridge that, apparently, now had a _foot_ in it. _Lovely_.

"I do _worry_ about you, sometimes. Both of you." he said, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I hadn't realise you were so _concerned_ about our welfa-" Sherlock's sarcastic sentence was cut short as his almost empty stomach rebelled, bile and half-digested black coffee covering the Detective Inspector's shoes.

"That's disgusting! They're _brand new _shoes, Sherlock!" Lestrade cried, grimacing as he looked down.

"I agree." Sherlock whimpered.

"Told you that you wouldn't be able to handle oral painkillers just yet." John muttered, rubbing his flatmate's back through the silver blanket. "Nice deep breaths, Sherlock. Nice deep breaths."

"I presume you'd deduced that about my shoes, then?" Lestrade snipped, toeing them off once Sherlock had stopped heaving.

"Yes, yesterday. You bought them in the sale, and they're half-a-size-too-big, you have blisters that have caused you considerable pain for the past three hours. You're not one to waste your earnings on luxury items, however, you've had your eye on these for a while because of their quality - you like a pair of shoes to last… But…"

"But… there's _always_ a _but_ in there, isn't there? You're going to tell me how my shoes inform you about something important in my life, aren't you?" Lestrade prompted, bracing himself mentally for what could possibly turn out to be either embarrassing or insulting.

"_But_… I was _actually_ referring to what John said."

"This'll need soaking to get the blood out." John said, picking up Sherlock's blood-soaked coat and wrapping it in a clinical waste bag. Quickly, he returned the medical kit bag to Lestrade's car boot.

"There's an aqueous suspension of protease enzyme in the cupboard above the microwave, give it a good shake before you use it." Sherlock said.

"That'll do the trick. I'll have to nip into Bart's tomorrow, and make sure this gets thrown into the incinerator. I also need to ask Molly, _very nicely_, to put the needle holders and needle through her autoclave, _again_." John said, gesturing to the little clinical waste container and then the equipment he'd used earlier, which he'd wrapped up in a bandage.

"Huh? Hang on, back up a bit. What exactly were you _agreeing_ to, Sherlock?" Lestrade muttered, a little bit lost with whatever tangent the doctor and sociopath's conversation had travelled off to. They had a tendency to do that, conversing as if there wasn't anyone else around them.

"Oh, I was agreeing that I'd have _definitely_ preferred the taste of a banana. However, I've no idea on how a semi-digested banana would affect your leather shoes. I'm rather curious… do you mind if I hang onto them, for research purposes, of course?"

Lestrade spluttered in reply, "Dr. Watson, for God's sake, get him home and out of my sight, before I do something that would endanger my career!"

"Is that a no to keeping your shoes, then?" Sherlock asked as John gently bundled him, his silver blanket, the little clinical waste container, bandaged equipment and the bagged coat into the waiting unmarked car, that would take them back to 221B Baker Street.

"Sir, what happened to your shoes?" Donavan asked, re-appearing at his side with his car keys. She was looking down at the Detective Inspector stood in his socks next to the soiled shoes.

"Sherlock. Sherlock happened to my shoes."


End file.
